A Shilling for Candles

by Josephine Tey

  “Lydia’s uncanny,” Marta broke in, handing Grant a drink. “She did poor Christine Clay’s horoscope about a year ago, you know, and foretold her death.”

  “And wasn’t that a break!” drawled the Judy girl, poking among the sandwiches.

  Lydia’s thin face was convulsed with fury, and Marta hastened to pour oil. “You know that’s not fair, Judy! It isn’t the first time Lydia has been right. She warned Tony Pickin about an accident before he was smashed up. If he’d listened to her and taken a little more care, he’d have two legs today. And she told me about not accepting the Clynes’ offer, and she—”

  “Don’t bother to defend me, Marta darling. The credit is not mine, in any case. I only read what is there. The stars don’t lie. But one does not expect a Pisces person to have either the vision or the faith!”

  “Seconds out of the ring,” murmured Jammy, and hit the rim of his glass with his fingernail so that it made a light “ping.”

  But there was to be no fight. Clements provided a distraction.

  “What I want to know,” he drawled, “is not what Lydia found in the stars but what the police found at Westover.”

  “What I want to know is who did her in?” Judy said, taking a large bite of sandwich.

  “Judy!” Marta protested.

  “Oh, bunk!” said Judy. “You know we’re all thinking the same thing. Going around the possibilities. Personally I plump for Jason. Has anyone any advance on Jason?”

  “Why Jason?” Clements asked.

  “He’s one of these smoldering types, all passion and hot baths.”

  “Smolder! Jason!” Marta protested. “What nonsense! He simmers. Like a merry kettle.” Grant glanced at her. So she was sticking up for Jason? How much did she like him? “Jason’s much too volatile to smolder.”

  “Anyhow,” Clements said, “men who take hot baths don’t commit murder. It’s the cold-plungers who see red. They are possessed by a desire to get back on life for the suffering they have endured.”

  “I thought masochists were rarely sadists,” Grant said.

  “Whether or not, you can put Jason out of it,” insisted Marta. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t he,” Judy said, and they all paused to look at her.

  “What exactly does that mean?” Clements asked.

  “Never mind. My bet’s on Jason.”

  “And what was the motive?”

  “She was running out, I suspect.”

  Marta interrupted sharply. “You know that’s nonsense, Judy. You know quite well that there was nothing between them.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. He was never out of her sight.”

  “A bitch thinks all the world a bitch,” murmured Jammy into Grant’s ear.

  “I suspect”—it was Lydia’s turn to break into a growing squabble—“that Mr. Hopkins knows much more about it than we do. He’s been down at Westover today for his paper.”

  Jammy was instantly the center of attraction. What did he think? What had the police got? Who did they think had done it? Were all these hints in the evening papers about her living with someone true?

  Jammy enjoyed himself. He was suggestive about murderers, illuminating on murder, discursive about human nature, and libelously rude about the police and their methods, all with a pleased eye on the helpless Grant.

  “They’ll arrest the boy she was living with,” he finished. “Take it from me. Tisdall’s his name. Good-looking boy. He’ll create a sensation in the dock.”

  “Tisdall?” they said, puzzled. “Never heard of him.”

  All but Judy Sellers.

  Her mouth opened in dismay, stayed that way helplessly for a moment, and then shut tightly; and a blind came down over her face. Grant watched the display in surprised interest.

  “I think it’s utterly ridiculous,” Marta was saying, scornfully. “Can you imagine Christine Clay in a furtive business like that! It’s not in the part at all. I’d as soon—as soon—I’d as soon believe that Edward could commit a murder!”

  There was a little laugh at that.

  “And why not?” asked Judy Sellers. “He comes back to England to find his adored wife being unfaithful, and is overcome with passion.”

  “At six of a morning on a cold beach. Can’t you see Edward!”

  “Champneis didn’t arrive in England till Thursday,” offered Hopkins, “so that lets him out.”

  “I do think this is the most heartless and reprehensible conversation,” Marta said. “Let’s talk of something else.”

  “Yes, do,” said Judy. “It’s a profitless subject. Especially since you, of course, murdered her yourself.”

  “I!” Marta stood motionless in an aura of bewildered silence. Then the moment broke.

  “Of course!” Clement said. “You wanted the part she was due to play in the new film! We’d forgotten that!”

  “Well, if we’re looking for motives, Clement, my sweet, you were raving mad with fury because she refused to be photographed by you. If I remember rightly, she said your works were like spilt gravy.”

  “Clement wouldn’t drown her. He’d poison her,” Judy said. “With a box of chocolates, Borgia-wise. No, come to think of it, Lejeune did it, in case he’d have to act with her. He’s the virile type. His father was a butcher, and he probably inherited a callous mentality! Or how about Coyne? He would have killed her on the Bars of Iron set, if no one had been looking.” She apparently had forgotten about Jason.

  “Will you all kindly stop this silly chatter!” Marta said, with angry emphasis. “I know that after three days a shock wears off. But Christine was a friend of ours, and it’s disgusting to make a game of the death of a person we all liked.”

  “Hooey!” said Judy, rudely. She had consumed her fifth drink. “Not one of us cared a brass farthing for her. Most of us are tickled to death she’s out of the way.”

  Chapter 7

  In the bright cool of Monday morning Grant drove himself down Wigmore Street. It was still early and the street was quiet; Wigmore Street’s clients do not stay in town for weekends. The flower shops were making up Saturday’s roses into Victorian posies where their errant petals could be gently corseted. The antique shops were moving that doubtful rug to the other side of the window out of the too questioning gaze of the morning sun. The little cafés were eating their own stale buns for their morning coffee and being pained and haughty with inconsiderates who asked for fresh scones. And the dress shops took Saturday’s bargains out of the cupboard and restored the original prices.

  Grant, who was en route to see Tisdall’s tailor, was a little disgruntled at the perversity of things. If Tisdall’s coat had been made by a London tailor it would have been a simple matter to have the button identified by them as one used by them for coats, and for Tisdall’s coat in particular. That wouldn’t clinch the matter but it would bring the clinching appreciably nearer. But Tisdall’s coat had been made, of all places, in Los Angeles. “The coat I had,” he explained, “was too heavy for that climate, so I got a new one.”

  Reasonable, but trying. If the coat had been made by a London firm of standing, one could walk into their shop at any time in the next fifty years and be told without fuss and with benevolent politeness (provided they knew who you were) what kind of buttons had been used. But who was to say whether a Los Angeles firm would know what buttons they put on a coat six months ago! Besides, the button in question was wanted here. It could not very well be sent to Los Angeles. The best one could do was to ask them to supply a sample of the buttons used. If they remembered!

  Grant’s main hope was that the coat itself would turn up. An abandoned coat which could be identified as Tisdall’s, with one button missing, would be the perfect solution. Tisdall was wearing the coat when he drove away the car. That was Sergeant Williams’s contribution to the cause of justice and due promotion. He had found a farmer who had seen the car at the Wed-marsh crossroads a little after six on Thursday morning. About twenty past, he rec
koned, but he hadn’t a watch. Didn’t need one. Tell the time any time of day, sun or no sun. He was driving sheep, and the car slowed down because of them. He was positive that the man driving was young and wore a dark coat. He didn’t think he’d be able to identify the man, not on his oath, he wouldn’t—but he had identified the car. It was the only car he had seen that morning.

  Williams’s other contribution had not been so happy. He reported that Jason Harmer had not stayed at the hotel he had given as his sleeping place at Sandwich. Had not stayed at Sandwich at all, in fact.

  Grant had left his Sunday kidney and bacon untouched and had gone out without ado to interview Mr. Harmer. He found him in his pinkish flat at Devonshire House, covered in a purple silk dressing gown, black stubble, and sheet music.

  “It’s not often I’m up at this hour,” he offered, pushing sheets of scrawled paper off a chair to make room for Grant. “But I’ve been sort of upset about Chris. Very good friends, we were, Inspector. Some people found her difficult, but me, no. ’Cause why? D’you know why? ’Cause we both felt no account and were afraid people’d find it out. Humans are awful bullies, you know. If you look and act like a million dollars they’ll lick your boots. But you let them suspect that you don’t think much of yourself and they’re on you like ants on a dying wasp. I knew Chris was bluffing first time I set eyes on her. You can’t tell me anything about bluffing. I bluffed my way into the States and I bluffed the publishers into printing my first song. They didn’t find out about it till the song was a wow, and then they sort of thought it might be a good idea to forget about having one put over on them. Have a drink? Yes, it’s a bit early. I don’t usually myself till lunchtime, but it’s the next best thing to sleep. And I’ve got two songs to finish on contract. For—for—” his voice died away—“for Coyne’s new film,” he went on with a rush. “Ever tried writing a song without an idea in your head? No. No, I suppose you haven’t. Well, it’s just plain torture. And who’s going to sing them anyhow? That Hallard dame can’t sing. Did you hear Chris sing ‘Sing to Me Sometimes’?”

  Grant had.

  “Now that’s what I call putting over a song. I’ve written better songs, I admit. But she made it sound like the best song that was ever written. What’s the good of writing songs anyway, for that up-stage Hallard bird to make a mess of?”

  He was moving about the room, picking up a pile of papers here only to set it down in an equally inappropriate place there. Grant watched him with interest. This was Marta’s “merry kettle” and Judy’s “smoldering type.” To Grant he seemed neither. Just one of those rather ordinary specimens of humanity from some poor corner of Europe who believes he’s being continually exploited and persecuted by his fellow men, self-pitying, ill-educated, emotional, and ruthless. Not good-looking, but attractive to women, no doubt. Grant remembered that two such widely differing types as Marta Hallard and Judy Sellers had found him remarkable; each reading her own meaning into his personality. He apparently had the ability to be all things to all men. He had been friendly to the disliked Marta, that was certain: Marta did not hotly defend indifferent worshippers at her shrine. He spent his life, that is to say, “putting on an act.” He had admitted so much himself a moment ago. Was he putting on an act now? For Grant?

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but it was a matter of business. You know that we are investigating Miss Clay’s death. And in the course of investigation it is necessary to check the movements of everyone who knew her, irrespective of persons or probabilities. Now, you told the sergeant of the County police force, when you talked to him on Thursday, that you had spent the night in a hotel at Sandwich. When this was checked in the ordinary course it was found that you hadn’t stayed there.”

  Harmer fumbled among the music, without looking up.

  “Where did you stay, Mr. Harmer?”

  Harmer looked up with a small laugh. “You know,” he said, “it’s pretty funny at that! Charming gentleman calls in a perfectly friendly way about breakfast time, apologizing for disturbing you and hopes he isn’t going to be a trouble to you but he’s an inspector of police and would you be so very kind as to give some information because last time your information wasn’t as accurate as it might have been. It’s lovely, that’s what it is. And you get results with it, too. Perhaps they just break down and sob, on account of all the friendliness. Pie like mother made. What I’d like to know is if that method goes in Pimlico or if you keep it for Park Lane.”

  “What I would like to know is where you stayed last Wednesday night, Mr. Harmer.”

  “The Mr., too, I guess that’s Park Lane as well. In fact, if you’d been talking to the Jason of ten years back, you’d have had me to the station and scared hell out of me just like the cops of any other country. They’re all the same; dough worshippers.”

  “I haven’t your experience of the world’s police forces, I’m afraid, Mr. Harmer.”

  Harmer grinned. “Stung you! A limey’s got to be plenty stung before he’s rude-polite like that. Don’t get me wrong, though, Inspector. There aren’t any police brands on me. As for last Wednesday night, I spent it in my car.”

  “You mean you didn’t go to bed at all?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “And where was the car?”

  “In a lane with hedges as high as houses each side, parked on the grass verge. An awful lot of space goes to waste in England in these verges. The ones in that lane were about forty feet wide.”

  “And you say you slept in the car? Have you someone who can bear witness to that?”

  “No. It wasn’t that kind of park. I was just sleepy and lost and couldn’t be bothered going any further.”

  “Lost! In the east of Kent!”

  “Yes, anywhere in Kent, if it comes to that. Have you ever tried to find a village in England after dark? Night in the desert is nothing to it. You see a sign at last that says Whatsit two and a half miles and you think: Good old Whatsit! Nearly there! Hurrah for England and signposts! And then half a mile on you come to a place where three ways fork, and there’s a nice tidy signpost on the little bit of green in the middle and every blame one of that signpost’s arms has got at least three names on it, but do you think one of them mentions Whatsit? Oh, no! That would make it far too easy! So you read ’em all several times and hope someone’ll come past before you have to decide, but no one comes. Last person passed there a week last Tuesday. No houses; nothing but fields, and an advertisement for a circus that was there the previous April. So you take one of the three roads, and after passing two more signposts that don’t take any notice of Whatsit, you come to one that says Whatsit, six and three-quarters. So you start off all over again, four miles to the bad, as it were, and it happens all over again. And again! And by the time Whatsit has done that on you half a dozen times, you don’t care what happens as long as you can stop driving around corners and go to sleep. So I just stopped where I was and went to sleep. It was too late to drop in on Chris by that time, anyway.”

  “But not too late to get a bed at an inn.”

  “Not if you know where an inn is. ’Sides, judging by some of the inns I’ve seen here, I’d just as soon sleep in the car.”

  “You grow a heavy beard, I notice.” Grant nodded at Harmer’s unshaven chin.

  “Yes. Have to shave twice a day, sometimes. If I’m going to be out late. Why?”

  “You were shaved when you arrived at Miss Clay’s cottage. How was that?”

  “Carry my shaving things in the car. Have to, when you have a beard like mine.”

  “So you had no breakfast that morning?”

  “No, I was planning to get breakfast from Chris. I don’t eat breakfast anyway. Just coffee, or orange juice. Orange juice in England. My God, your coffee—what do you think they do to it? The women, I mean. It’s—”

  “Leaving the coffee aside for a moment, shall we come to the main point? Why did you tell the sergeant on duty that you had slept at Sandwich?”

&
nbsp; The man’s face changed subtly. Until then he had been answering at ease, automatically; the curves of his broad, normally good-natured face slack and amiable. Now the slackness went; the face grew wary, and—was it?—antagonistic.

  “Because I felt there was something wrong, and I didn’t want to be mixed up in it.”

  “That is very extraordinary, surely? I mean, that you should be conscious of evil before anyone knew that it existed.”

  “That’s not so funny. They told me Chris was drowned. I knew Chris could swim like an eel. I knew that I had been out all night. And the sergeant was looking at me with a Who-are-you-and-what-are-you-doing-here expression.”

  “But the sergeant had no idea that the drowning was more than an accident. He had no reason to look at you in that way.”

  Then he decided to drop the subject of Harmer’s lie to the sergeant.

  “How did you know, by the way, where to find Miss Clay? I understood that she kept her retreat a secret.”

  “Yes, she’d run away. Gave us all the runaround, in fact, including me. She was tired and not very pleased at the way her last picture had turned out. On the floor, I mean; it isn’t released yet. Coyne didn’t know how to take her. A bit in awe of her, and afraid at the same time she’d put one over on him. You know. If he’d called her ‘kid’ and ‘chocolate’ the way old Joe Myers used to back in the States, she’d have laughed and worked like a black for him. But Coyne’s full of his own dignity, the ‘big director’ stuff, and so they didn’t get on too good. So she was fed up, and tired, and everyone wanted her to go to different places for holidays, and it seemed she couldn’t make up her mind, and then one day we woke up and she wasn’t there. Bundle—that’s her housekeeper—said she didn’t know where she was, but no letters were to be forwarded and she’d turn up again in a month, so no one was to worry. Well, for about a fortnight no one heard of her, and then last Tuesday I met Marta Hallard at a sherry party at Libby Seemon’s—she’s going into that new play of his—and she said that on Saturday she had run into Chris buying chocolates at a place in Baker Street—Chris never could resist chocolates between pictures!—and she tried to worm out of Chris where she was hiding out. But Chris wasn’t giving anything away. At least she thought she wasn’t. She said: ‘Perhaps I’m never coming back. You know that old Roman who grew vegetables with his own hands and was so stuck on the result that he made the arrangement permanent. Well, yesterday I helped pull the first cherries for Covent Garden market and, believe me, getting the Academy Award for a picture is nothing to it!’ “